All the Pretty Birds
by Atramentua
Summary: In this cruel underworld, nothing is sacred. Long ago had her innocence been stolen away from her, with every beating, every kill, at the hands of her Master. It is here that the Angel of Death's story begins. Where the story of Tira starts.
1. Chapter I: Beautiful Child

**All the Pretty Birds**

_An Epic Tira Tribute by Keaton the Black Jackal_

**Author's Note: **For a good long while, I've wanted to write something as a tribute to Tira, whether it be a pointless drabble or an epic story. I've been examining Tira's personality from the inside-out ever since the game came out, and I've been learning how to write as her and portray her in the best way I can. I can only hope that you all enjoy this story, and that the fruits of my labor pay off. It's about time I made a tribute to my favorite Soul Calibur character (the runner-up being Siegfried), and I figured it would be appropriate for such a violent story to match the main character. To any Violet Version readers who have made their way here—I hope you like this. )

Too bad people might dismiss this as "Another Tira Origin Fanfiction". There are so many of them, BUT I REGRET NOTHING!

**Disclaimer: **As you may have already realized, I own no aspect of Soul Calibur III, including its characters, stories, plotlines, etcetera. This is just a fanfiction, made out of appreciation for the video game, and the writing in this story, as well as the character Freya, belongs to me.

**Warning: **Time for the boring stuff. I'm going to be frank—I'm going all out with this story, and I'm trying to make it as bone-chilling and disturbing as possible. Violence, mentions and slightly direct forms of physical and verbal child abuse, and foul language… run for your life. I just hope this doesn't subtract any entertainment from this story. This is my first macabre fanfiction, and hopefully this will be my longest.

But if this doesn't disturb you, then no worries. :D

**--**

"_The art of mothering is to teach the art of living to children."_

**_-Elain Heffner, O Magazine, May 2003_**

**_Chapter I, Prelude:_ **Beautiful Child

"_Who's my beautiful little girl?"_

Crystalline met crystalline; gorgeous, vibrant violet met violet; and beautiful pearlescence met pearlescence, a smile curving the voluptuous lips, head hovering over the green-enveloped bundle in her hands. Curled up in her grip, the pixie of a child gazed up at her and returned the smile, giggling and flailing her hands about cheerfully. Big eyes blinked beneath thick eyelashes, the owner's lips puckered ever so slightly, and her chubby paws finally wrapped around a finger that was offered to her, tugging on it playfully.

She was a mesmerizing girl, nearly identical to the raven-haired woman clutching her so lovingly. She had voluminous, curly black hair, wide, purple eyes, one of which was punctuated with a beauty mark, and creamy flawless skin, turned orange in the firelight.

Her smiling mother leaned back in her chair, making it sway and creak ever so slightly, the shadows beneath her shifting to match the movement and the new position of the rocking chair. The child turned her head, as though surveying her surroundings: orange light filling the dusty, modest room, flickering from the lanterns that illuminated it, filtering through the thick glass, and casting black, sloping shadows along the outlines of every shape and slant in their range. Her finger ran affectionately over the arch of the fiery light on her cheek, tracing the light on her flesh.

"Are you happy, little girl?" the woman inquired, tilting her head, allowing her bangs to drape over her angular face.

The child mimicked her movement, cooing and grinning her eternal grin on her pudgy face. This was all the convincing her mother needed, as she leaned in and nuzzled the baby's delicately pointed nose. "Good," she said, "You deserve to be happy."

"For the rest of your life."

_Tap-tap-tap-tap._

She froze where she sat, the tangent disappearing on her tongue like a passing breeze. Repetitive, monotonous clicking rang out in the air, the sound of nails against glass resonating through the light-flooded room. Her eyes shifted; her face suddenly becoming sunken and fearful as her eyes locked on the window, where a silhouette hovered behind the fog-caked glass.

_Tap-tap-tap-tap._

She couldn't make out what it was due to the atramentous night, cloaking the sky and shadowing the trees, the hills, the snow coating the branches and the skeletons of the bushes. Only the mere outlines of the looming, pillar-like trunks of the trees were visible, highlighted by the silvery moon peeking past the winter mist. In the orange darkness emitting from the window, grease glittered along the slick body of the shadow as it turned back, eyes smoldering like blazing coals.

Her fear was interrupted, however, by a piercing, rasping crow, and the indistinct shuffling of feathered wings. Completely turning her head around nervously, slender eyes wide, she carefully climbed to her feet as the tapping continued, ever relentless, ever beating into her soul.

_Tap-tap-tap-tap._

Scooping a lantern off of the nearby rickety table with her free hand, and clutching her child a bit tighter, she carefully approached the door. Taking her time with each step, each settle of her foot gentle, she stopped before the glass. Eyes narrowing, and body shaking, she strained her eyes to peek past the clouds of diaphanous mist, glowing eerily in the darkness as it orbited the house and the feathery figure.

_Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap._

The figure before her dipped back, the raging luster of its eyes muted as it pulled away from the window. Moonlight washed over it, zigzagging through ebony feathers and along the curvaceous shapes of its head and the bodies of its brethren who glided gracefully past, wings beating rapidly. The flock landed in the lower branches of one of the shorter trees, huddling close and nuzzling against one another. One by one, they were joined by more of their moonlit companions, jostling the branches and making the frost twirl to the ground like milky petals.

Releasing the breath she had been holding, the woman sighed in relief, set down the lantern she was holding back on its perch, and drew her hand through her hair, glancing protectively down at her child. The lightning-fast palpitations of her heart started to slow, and the frost thawed from her spine, carefully leaving her immersed in the same calm which once bathed the room as thickly as the golden-orange light of the tiny flames of the lanterns.

Ravens. Only ravens, she told herself.

The last predicament she needed was for another person to arrive, much less sneak clandestinely around the walls of her dilapidated house.

Sinking her pearly white teeth into her lower lip, the woman took a deep breath, gathered up her confused and slightly mussed child, and departed the room. The halls of her house were as sparsely furnished as the room she was once in but were a stark contrast to the ramshackle exterior in its simplistic, sturdy design. To the untrained eye, the house would look like nothing special—just another abandoned, tainted home in the center of a ghost town.

The story —about the town which had been constantly plagued by demons—was renowned among all in Scandinavia. Demons had been deemed responsible for the misfortune and the famine that crept over the land and had never left despite the finest exorcist's efforts. The only option for the townspeople was to flee their cursed home, and they all had done it without looking back.

It was the perfect subterfuge. Nobody would think about looking for the woman or her family in this forgotten part of Denmark, much less in this desolate town.

Leaning around the edge of the hallway and peeking into the room where her family shared meals, she glanced at the wooden table in the center, surrounded by tightly-packed bookshelves. "Álarr?" she called out tentatively, "Álarr, are you here?"

Sure enough, the ebony head of a middle-aged man turned up from the book he was clutching. As opposed to his wife's angular features, his were rounded but scruffy, due to the prickly facial hair trailing down his chin. Blue eyes peered at her beneath perfectly sculpted eyebrows on his porcelain face, giving him a nearly fragile appearance, conflicted by the deep color of his hair. He brushed away the limp, sable bangs of his hair from his face, tucking them behind his ear.

"Ailbhe?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, "What's wrong, love?"

Ailbhe sighed and entered the room, walking quietly—her daughter had fallen asleep, as the indistinct sound of whispering snores emitting from her blanket confessed. "Álarr…" she didn't bother beating around the bush, as he immediately noticed the sorrowful look on her face, barely concealed by her shaggy black hair, "We can't do this."

Álarr, however, didn't seem to understand what she said, as he merely cocked his head and blinked, confused and uncomprehending. Snapping his dusty, aging book shut and standing up, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"We're living like animals, Álarr," Ailbhe protested, cradling the baby close, carefully rocking her back and forth, lulling her deeper into sleep, "We can't live like this any longer. This isn't natural. We can't raise our child like this—"

He almost instantly interjected,"You know perfectly well we don't have a choice," he stated.

"Yes, but—"

"We're criminals, Ailbhe," Álarr reminded her, "Remember? Everywhere we look, they'll be looking for us. We have no choice but to lay low—"

"But for how long?" Ailbhe demanded, "Must we really subject our child to this? To live like a fugitive without experiencing the world around her?"

At long last, Álarr's limited patience snapped like a toothpick. Snatching his book off of the table and tucking it under his arm, he snarled, "That's enough. Would you prefer we be hunted down like wolves and killed, without any interference by our oh-so-virtuous ruler?"

Ailbhe said nothing; she only glared in silent defeat, still cuddling her baby close, as though she were banishing the pure, cold anger from her body. Snorting to himself, Álarr whirled around, turning his back on her, "We're done here. Good night, Ailbhe."

Ailbhe didn't get a chance to say anything, because he had already stormed out of the room. Screaming a string of curses in her head that would've made a whole growth forest burst into flames, she returned the gesture, huffed, and stomped out the way she had come, too enraged to bother remaining quiet for her snoozing baby's benefit.

_Idiot! _Ailbhe fumed, coming dangerously close to repeating that profanity aloud, _That goddamn idiot! He's completely right. We're trapped here. There's no way out…_

Their story was a morose one indeed: Álarr, once a loyal and trusted guard for a wealthy noble, had overheard some of his master's corrupt agendas, and had threatened to report him. Unfortunately for him, the person he had turned to was just as morally devoid as the man he worked for, and had undermined his crusade, forcing him and his wife to take sanctuary in a safe hiding spot. It was here that Ailbhe had given birth to her daughter, and away from any proper medical attention, she had miraculously survived through the process against all odds and obstacles.

She stopped in the midst of a step, remembering to keep her footsteps quiet once she felt her baby stir. Cursing herself once more, Ailbhe apologetically cradled her, bouncing her and whispering comforting words until the child was soothed.

Staring into the sleeping face of her baby, Ailbhe sighed in relief and waited for her anger to subside. Sadness overcame her beautiful facial features, transforming light into darkness, and permeating her diamond eyes with unhappy smog. Combing her hand through the moptop of black hair budding atop her daughter's hair, Ailbhe murmured, "You deserve more than this. We all do…"

_Creaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak._

Once again, Ailbhe felt her body instinctually stiffen in fear, color draining from the peachy paleness of her flesh. Her baby twitched again from the infernal, prolonged sound, but didn't wake up, instead rolling onto her side and rubbing her head into the fluff of the blanket. Ailbhe waited for the sound to repeat itself, but thankfully, the atmosphere returned to its morbid, silent state.

It was not surprising that the house was creaking, considering its exterior's tumble-down state, but something about the sound frightened her like nothing else. On a normal basis, the rickety sounds of her home were much quieter, much more subtle, than the raspy noise she had just heard.

She shrugged it off. It was probably Álarr, throwing some form of temper tantrum as he stalked his way to bed. It wasn't the first time her husband had done such a thing, as both of them had notoriously turbulent tempers.

That was all.

Ailbhe sighed and shook her head, her limp black bangs whipping before her face. The stress was really getting to her. Maybe it would be best if she went to bed with her husband and put her own sleepy child to rest in her basket. With this objective in mind, she turned, and, bundling the baby tighter and more comfortably in her blanket, she traced the trail her husband had left.

The moment her foot settled on the first step along the staircase, a loud_ thud _reverberated from high above Ailbhe, followed by a vibration from the wooden, slightly unreliable ceiling. Stopping in her tracks and withdrawing her foot, she stared up at it, as though expecting another sound to accompany it.

No such thing happened, and with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, Ailbhe trudged her way up the stairs with an air of trepidation that she couldn't restrain. Something wasn't right, she told herself, but she tried to banish it back to the dark, miasmatic pit it had emerged from. Reaching out for the doorknob and giving it a twist and a push, Ailbhe entered her room.

And she nearly screamed at the horrific sight that awaited her.

Sprawled in a pool of tainted red, a limp, lifeless Álarr lay on the ground, turned over on his stomach. A long gash cleaved over his spine, revealing the sinewy muscle beneath the frail skin, glowing with blood in the acrid light.

"A- Álarr…?" Ailbhe stuttered in disbelief, squeezing the bundle with such intensity that her tumultuously trembling knuckles turned as stark white as her face, "Álarr?!"

No response, even as Ailbhe dashed up to him and leaned down, frantically shaking her husband with her free hand, "Álarr! Wake up! Please wake up! Oh God—"

The milky whites of his eyes stared numbly into her face, barely hidden by disheveled strands of sandy brown, and glowing with the same look of terror that was completely petrified on his face, the remnants of his emotions just before his brutal murder. Salty trails of tears streaked down Ailbhe's face, trickling from her bloodshot eyes, descending her cheeks and her throat and splashing onto the shamrock tufts of the baby's blanket.

"Don't leave me!" she cried, voice strangled by sobs, "DON'T LEAVE ME, ÁLARR—"

_This can't be happening, _Ailbhe shrieked mentally, her body filling with frigid, stupefied numbness, creeping up her limbs and nearly stiffening her like a statue even as she almost dropped onto her knees, sobbing, her only source of heat the throbbing pulse of her tossing, turning baby. Too preoccupied with her husband's death to care about the sudden, rigid opening of her child's opalescent eyes, she panicked, _This is just a nightmare, this can't be happening. I'm just going to wake up next to him, and my baby, and everything will be back to normal—_

Suddenly, the cold caress of metal slid across Ailbhe's throat ever so tenderly, grazing her throat and aiming the tip near her jugular, snapping her back to merciless reality. Pupils dilated, her back arched, and her shoulders slumped, her entire body reacting unintentionally.

Bronze, eagle-like eyes peered into hers behind a smooth veil of vigorous, dyed teal hair, narrowed and animalistic—the sign of a depraved beast of a woman, one completely void of virtue. Battle-scarred skin, shadowed by the hood of the intruder's cloak, greeted her, juxtaposing the slender shape of her eyes and body, and her silky, beryl hair. The rest was completely draped in black, likely as camouflage—rather effective camouflage because of her undetected entrance.

The hand clutching the knife twirled it almost casually as a tiny, elusive smirk curled the edges of her luscious, cherry-rimmed lips, barely moving as she tauntingly spoke, "Well, if this isn't a wonderful surprise," her other arm hooked around Ailbhe's neck beneath the blade of her knife, holding the woman still, "I didn't think anybody else would be in this house."

Ailbhe said nothing, her throat completely evaporated of all moisture and any potential words as her jaw hung slack, lips damp from the rolling beads of salty fluid still dribbling from her reddened eyes. No matter how much she struggled, she didn't dare to look at her dead husband's corpse, only able to lock her eyes onto the knife's blade.

Bright red splotches completely drenched it from tip to leathery handle.

And she knew perfectly well it wasn't her own.

An assassin, likely sent by the same noble they had cowered from.

Anger—animalistic, unforgiving anger—welled up inside of Ailbhe like the bellowing plume of a wildfire, a hoarse, devastated howl tearing from her mouth. The purple eyes of her baby snapped open, widening almost simultaneously to the attacker's own startled cry. Ailbhe's elbow lashed out, knocking her back with all her might—her body completely blind to the sudden scrape of the blade that carved a thin, shallow divot against her throat. It was nowhere deep enough to threaten her life, but despite its nature, it continued to throb and beat at her infuriated, blinded mind, her battle cry further antagonizing her terror-stricken, bawling baby.

Her assailant stumbled back, and Ailbhe raced right past her in a blur of ivory and black, her long hair billowing behind her like a banner. Her speed was remarkable despite the fluttering hem of her dress, each step broad and swift beneath the dusty ripples of fabric. The teal-haired woman grunted and rubbed her aching stomach from where she was shoved on the floor, glaring ferociously at Ailbhe before she completely disappeared down the stairs, the hysterical, undisturbed wailing of her baby streaming behind her every step of the way. Snatching her knife off the floor and gripping the flat, immense bundle strapped to her back, the woman grunted, leapt to her feet, and pursued Ailbhe, charging down the stairs.

"You just made the worst mistake of your life, you bi—" she snapped at Ailbhe, even as she heard the front door slam open with such force the foundations of the rickety house quivered, and the clangorous footsteps beat against the unstable, poorly-fashioned wood that marked the black-haired woman's flight.

Despite the lead Ailbhe had on her, the teal-haired woman kept rushing after her, her legs a mere blur, pumping beneath her. The object tied to her back jostled and bounced within its paper sheath with each inch she made as she started to close in on Ailbhe. Thanks to the crying of her baby echoing in the winter air, hunting Ailbhe was easy despite the veils of fog and the viscious snow muffling and restricting their footsteps.

She was close now, and the distance was all the woman needed to whip her package off of her back, hand ripping away the dusty paper cocooning it, to reveal the silver, dangerous edge within it, glowing with empyreal light in the moon's ethereal, slick shine.

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it forward, the ambiguous ring whizzing through the air like a serrated boomerang. It closed in on Ailbhe as it sliced neatly through the air, Ailbhe's eyes nearly engulfing the entirety of her face as she glanced over her shoulder, a scream dancing on her lips—

--and then the weapon perforated her back, ripping through her blouse and layer upon layer of flesh. Red geysered through the velvet, vaporous night, plummeting to the ground as Ailbhe hit the blanketed earth with a scream of pain, managing to land on her side so to not accidentally smother her baby. Planted in her back, tip-first, was the wing-shaped ridge of an abnormal, silver abomination of a weapon, hoop-shaped and nearly perfect in its impeccable gleam. A fresh coat of dappled carmine coated the ridge, racing down the edges and glittering like grisly liquid mercury on the metal.

The assassin's smug grin was almost sickening as she strode up to the immobilized woman, plucking the weapon out with a sharp tug. Ailbhe twitched and groaned in pain, voice marred by defeated sobbing. It took every muscle in her body to keep her steady enough to not roll over and crush her child, even as keeping herself on her side became all the more excruciating.

The watery purple eyes of her baby deliberately shifted, meeting the glazed ones of her mother. Ailbhe's body shook uncontrollably as her would-be murderer loomed over her, examining her with a nearly absent-minded disinterest.

As her sight glided over the macabre scene before her, darting from the blood of the woman that snaked along the frost-encrusted ground and down the back of her dress, she deeply inhaled the malodorous scent that trickled into the air with a felineesque purr. Savoring the gasping and the pained heaving of the woman, she twirled the ring effortlessly in her hand like it was just some child's toy.

Her smile, however, faded when the baby's anguish failed to cease. Pulling her eyes away from Ailbhe's red-stained, spasming body, her eyes landed on the baby, who thrashed and cried in her viridian blanket, as though reacting to the distress of her mother.

"Well well well," the blue-haired woman said, stroking her chin, "Look what we have here…"

The seething fog clouding Ailbhe's head dispelled almost instantly, her eyes widening to the size of twin, bloodshot discs. Peering through the locks of hair glued to her forehead, her pupils pinpricked until they were just dots—begging for the impending, wretched phantasm unfolding before her to just disappear, for her to jolt out of bed and awaken to see her whole world pieced back together, with her child in her arms and her husband at her side...

_Oh no…_ _Please no…_

But Ailbhe's prayers did her no good, as the woman leaned down and swiped her baby from the ground with her free arm, staring coldly into Ailbhe's eyes as they squeezed shut. Her strange, ring-shaped blade dangled from her other hand, dripping corrupted red onto the dirt, and soaking the black leather of her protective glove. The woman's eyes darted over the child, inspecting her, examining her, no longer amused or bothered by her mother's pain as she grasped desperately toward the woman's ankle.

Fingers wrapped around the heel of her boot, tugging in a futile effort to draw the woman's attention towards Ailbhe. This gesture was rebuffed as the woman's foot lifted, and she smacked the hand away with a jerk of her foot, threatening to crush her wrist as Ailbhe withdrew. Pain sparked inside of her body, searing like a wildfire from the sudden movement. Despite this, Ailbhe continued to struggle, pushing herself up onto her wrists the best she could.

"Please…" she whimpered, coughing, "Don't hurt my baby…"

The teal-headed woman said nothing, instead simply neglecting her in favor of appraising the baby, who quivered and went silent in her grip, as though cowed from the sheer, terrifying look in her eyes. What did she want? She had murdered her husband in cold blood, and now…

Now, the dark, sinking feeling of her imminent death was encroaching deeper into her mind, like some vile, tunneling parasite, ready to rip her to pieces.

Was she going to kill her beloved baby for no reason? Or was she going to, in an unexpected and possibly uncharacteristic show of mercy, leave both of them be instead of finishing the baby off?

She was unsure whether to embrace the fact that she would be reunited with her husband or weep that her child would face such a brutal and meaningless death before experiencing how wonderful life truly was. It was her deepest prayer that the baby would grow into a fine young woman—a respectable woman, one who would be detached from the undeserved reputation of her parents. Ailbhe's eyes watered, tears beginning to brim anew in them as she gagged and choked, blood dribbling down her chin. Her time was short—and there was no escape in sight, with her legs so paralyzed.

"Interesting little brat you have here," the woman unintentionally mouthed in spite of the woman's wordless dismay, "Yes… she could be useful."

One last tug on the folds of the woman's boots garnered her attention back to the child's dying mother. Ailbhe's musing was finally answered as the woman tore the child away from her eyes and glanced dispassionately down at Ailbhe's pleading, bloodied face. The Ailbhe's heart sank—there was no compassion nor any forgiveness in the assassin's shadowed, war torn face.

There was only barbarity.

The teal-haired one murmured thoughtfully, mouth arching into a wicked, devious smile. "I think I'll take her."

Ailbhe's heart turned to stone, dropping to the bottom of her stomach with a vociferous, almighty thump. Prayers and protests flew about helter-skelter in her aching head, crying over the interfering agony of anguish and despondency. "No!" she shouted, head whipping around, "You CAN'T! Give me back my baby! _DON'T TAKE MY BABY_!"

But once again, Ailbhe's voice deteriorated into a garbled scream as the weapon was brought down again, completely impaling her back. Releasing a choked cry, she collapsed completely, falling down the point that emerged from her stomach. Twisting the blade, the assassin removed it from her body again, setting her foot on the edge of Ailbhe's spine.

"Funny," she said apathetically, "I don't recall that you had any say in this."

Ailbhe merely clawed at the ground, nails uprooting ground and tearing grass to shreds as she groped for a proper footing. She had to save her baby—she had to stop this woman from taking away the last remnant of her family - to flee this nightmare—

She never got the chance. The foot on her back pressed down forcefully, driving Ailbhe into the ground. Out of the corner of her eyes, past a wall of fire, she saw the shine of the ring-blade weapon as it was lifted to the electrified sky, high over the blue-haired woman's head.

"After all," the woman said, clutching the traumatized, sniffling baby to her cloaked chest, "I think she'll be of much more use to the world than whatever you had planned for her."

The weapon came down with all her might, composed in that one, final swing.

"_No…" _Ailbhe moaned, "_My… my baby_—"

And as the sound of Ailbhe's last words slipped from her mouth just as the weapon made its impact, the baby mournfully screamed once more.

--

Once upon a time, the child had been taken away—far away by her kidnapper, over to the very edge of Denmark, past its ample forests. Resources ran dry and snow thickened as they had approached the no-man's land, neglected by the populace and seemingly inhabited only by wild animals.

This was seven years ago.

A loud, pained scream echoed in the air, ringing crisp and clear in the slate-grey, murky sky.

Blood leapt through the air in a scattered ribbon of flying beads, the nubile body of a young girl being thrown to the ground. A ring-shaped weapon, encircled with an acute, spiraling blade and etched with dimly-spun curls on its unimpressive edge, tumbled from a mitten-encased hand as the girl's back struck the floor, crushing a few unfortunate blades of grass beneath her emerald-hued tunic.

Groaning, the girl twitched and struggled to rise, barely supporting herself with her elbows without provoking her wound, which cut from her shoulder to the opposite side of her ribcage. A merely superficial wound, but painful nonetheless, as her moans were testament to.

Bestial, saffron eyes met purple ones, around which the lashes fluttered, banishing a hazy wall of dull moisture that would've fallen from an ordinary, weaker child. Teal-dyed bangs, once a luxurious black, wilted before her face, disheveled and barely tied in a lopsided ponytail. It had fallen loose from the scuffle with her superior—a tall, blue-haired woman, a disappointed look on her scarred face as she aimed the befouled tip of her winged ring-blade, Aiselne Drossel, at her injury.

The girl's hair had been possessively dyed in the image of her master the moment she grew a full head of hair. Her master had retrieved her from when she was a baby and was training her at this moment. The girl had been specifically instructed shortly after this odd ceremony to never erase the strong dye painting her hair, although such admonitions were unnecessary. The girl wouldn't dare remove the traces of such a 'prestigious' christening, of such a declaration of whom she belonged to, whether she had been ordered or not.

"You're slacking," the woman said numbly, disapprovingly, making the little girl at her feet wince.

Clutching her wound gingerly, the girl rushed her recovery, snatching up her own blade and stumbling to her knees. "Forgive me," she coughed, suppressing a pained croak. "I—I was weak. I…"

Her voice was as lifeless as the abysmal black of her otherwise beautiful pupils--the sign of a broken doll, a tarnished soul trapped within a body too disintegrated and a mind too ruinous for her to resist whatever was inflicted upon her. Long ago, this girl had been restrained at her master's hands and had submission beaten into her upon her introduction into her new 'home'—a rather loose term for what was more of a prison than anything else.

"That's no excuse," was the last thing the woman said before she pulled her leg to the side, and, purposefully aiming for the wound, kicked the girl onto her back.

A sharp stab of pain rocketed from the girl's gash as she was sent sprawling, her hand barely clutching her respective ring blade through her protective, padded glove. Surprisingly, she didn't scream or cry despite the red-hot pain oscillating from her shoulder, even as she reached up and touched it, guarding it from any further attacks.

The woman snorted, making the humbled girl graphically wince—not from the twinge of the cleft that lacerated her tunic and undershirt but from her own shame of disappointing the woman. Bowing her head, she could still feel her tutor's glowering gaze that, even then, was boring into her downtrodden face like brutal, acid-laced knives. This wasn't the first time the novice had failed at training, and despite the countless fiascos, it never ceased to humiliate her or anger her teacher.

It was amazing that even during the mental and physical strain that the girl didn't show anything akin to heartache, or any potential signs of breakdown.

She remained cowed, even as her master's speaking took on an insulting, razor-sharp edge. "Why do you always fail me?" she asked to no one in particular, completely ignoring the dismay in her pupil's broad, innocent eyes as her head turned upright again.

"I don't know, master," the girl said tenuously. Familiar sorrow, or the closest thing to it, started to spawn inside of her like some vicious animal, sinking its fangs deep into her heart and tearing it to shreds as the woman continued with her verbal abuse.

"Are you really this damn stupid?" the woman asked accusingly, looming like a hungry vulture over the petite girl.

The girl's head dropped another fraction, still too ashamed to lift neither it nor her eyes through her hair, which drooped about her face like the vines of a decaying willow. "I…" she murmured, "I won't fail you again, Master, I promise—"

"I asked you a QUESTION," the woman snarled, "And you are supposed to answer it. I repeat, in case your little mind is too useless to comprehend,_ are you really this stupid_?"

The girl forced a nod. The agony from her shoulder was mounting as her anxiety escalated with each word her master dished out, the blue-haired woman's glare intensifying by the second. "Maybe you're not so dumb after all, if you can realize your own flaws," the woman said, hardly satisfied despite this assumedly pleasing answer.

The girl's head turned up, a wistful smile on the quivering curve of her mouth—possibly feigned, possibly involuntary, but obviously from earning some form of licentious praise from her master. There was a tense, pregnant silence, one marred by the racing of the girl's heart, beating in her ears like thundering battle drums.

At long last silence, after what seemed like an eternity, was broken by the woman as her glare softened in favor of a sly, smooth smirk. "You," she commanded, drawing the girl's gaze up to her face once more.

"Yes, Master?" she asked, eyes full of curiosity and steady eagerness to please.

"Do you remember what I told you about people?" the older woman questioned her, sweeping her ring blade around.

The girl didn't hesitate for even a moment, instead meekly answering, "Humans are a disgusting and hopeless species, and are inherently weak…" she swallowed, licking her chapped lips, "And those who are not worthy of remaining in this world deserve to perish."

"For whom?"

"In the name of our Masters," the girl answered, "I will only obey my Masters and follow their will. They are always supreme over me, and I should never question their decisions, or I will face the consequences of rebellion."

"And you recall that nothing in this world is pure," the woman interrogated her, "And that the strong will prevail. We are the Angels of Death, and we cannot afford weakness. Remember that all of their deceitful, tainted lives mean nothing to you—or the rest of this hideous world. The only goal you live for is not for your own, independent thinking, but for joy in serving your Masters. To slay your targets, you must feel nothing but bloodlust and overwhelming happiness as you completely become our servant and claim the lives of those who have been condemned to death by our hands."

"Yes, Master," she agreed mechanically, not a trace of ardor in her tenebrous voice. "Their lives are worthless, as is mine. I live to serve."

"And, my precious little girl…" the woman built up to her conclusion, coyly, yet boisterously, asking, "When are people—the plague of this planet, our prey--most beautiful?"

The girl's head lifted reverently, possibly the only sign of hopeful emotion she had shown throughout the day, maybe even longer.

It was not enough to grant her any pride but just enough to reveal the shallow blankness and the injected respect in her once lively eyes. "People are most beautiful… right before they die."

The girl's eyes met those of her master's, the woman staring from on high at her, much like an emperor appearing before he would address his servants.

A diminutive, pathetically weak smile started to sprawl along the girl's lips as she released a taut, uncomfortable breath, loosening the figurative, clustered knot that suffocated her lungs. "Right, Master Freya?"

It was Freya's turn to smile or at the very least attempt a sickly, bastardized parody of one. "Of course, my precious little daughter…" her almost demonic smirk expanded as her student's eyes widened, breath hitching excitedly

She was what would become the perfect killer. The perfect student.

The perfect slave.

"Of course, Tira."

_**T**o **B**e **C**ontinued…_

--

Wow, that was chapter 1. I had this planned out for a while, and I think it came along smoothly enough for such a difficult chapter. It makes me wonder how

Time for useless trivia!

Ailbhe, the name of Tira's mother, is an Irish word that was possibly derived from the Gaelic root, 'Albho', which meant white. In this case, I was referring to her personality.

Álarr, in the meantime, means 'noble army'. Keeping the reason for his exile in mind, it's somewhat appropriate.

Freya was randomly chosen, and was based off of the word Freyja, meaning 'lady', and was the name of the goddess of love and beauty. As you can plainly see, this name's meaning isn't exactly befitting of Freya's character, but it sounds cool. Three cheers for Alan G. Zendra for giving me the name :3 Hmn. I'm going to need to figure out how to balance Freya's character a bit… this'll be difficult. I can't have a two-dimensional character here.

Deep down, I sincerely hope nobody considers this a rip-off of Schizoauthoress's wonderful Tira fanfiction series, starting with Rainy Nights and ending with Monstrosities. Read it—it's what inspired me to write this fic. Here's a shout out to all you guys at the SCIII RP Board!

Even though nobody really does a lot of SCIII RPing there anymore. Boooo.

Special thanks to Schizoauthoress for making said fanfiction, and if she happens to stumble across this, I hope she enjoys this, and I hope that all of you do, because there's much more to come.

Ooh, spooky.


	2. Chapter II: Sweet Lullaby

**Author's Note: **Wow, I'm finally getting this thing off of the ground. Say hello to Chapter II, everybody.

Special thanks goes to Shadow Rave, Paladin Dragoon for their oh-so-kind reviews. ) You guys ROCK, and I can't thank you enough for your input. Special thanks also goes to my boyfriend, Alan G. Zendra for his support—which is always such a blessing—and the help of my literature teacher for her proofreading. Also, thanks goes to those who reviewed on DA, bringing, as of this chapter, the reviews to a grand total of 7. I'm moving up in the world! So also, thanks to Sian Silverhair, MissAnneThropee, GothicAngel006, and Drakhand006. You all rock.

**Disclaimer:** Here I'm just singing the same refrain as everybody else on this site, but I might as well just say it anyway: I don't own Soul Calibur III. All I own is this story, and the characters Freya and Magdalene (who will be introduced in this chapter). Several other OCs will appear as well (Marion, Amsel, Alvör, and Magdalene), but please don't let their presence discourage you from enjoying the story.

**Warning:** Like I said… the same refrain. In this here chapter, lots of blood and violence will be frolicking about, as well as some burgeoning traces of insanity on Tira's end. And OCs. Many, many OCs. Sorry guys, but these are absolutely essential to the plot.

If you don't like this kind of stuff, for God's sake, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? Get up out of that computer chair and go outside and get some fresh air! LIVE A LITTLE! You hear me, soldier? Now drop and give me fifty!

-This pointless interlude has been brought to you by Keaton the Black Jackal. Enjoy the fic.

_--_

"_Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby."_

_-**Langston Hughes, 1902-1967**_

**Chapter II: **Sweet Lullaby

Twisting, writhing, kicking, biting, she fought for her life in the overwhelming, smothering coat of inky darkness, her movements rabid and furious.

All that stretched before her eyes was unlimited, hateful black—not silky like the night sky or as soft as velvet, festering and smothering her like some vile blanket of melanoid _nothing_, horrible, disgusting _nothing_. Tidal waves of frozen ebony flowed over Tira like rivers of impregnable ink, nearly drowning her, nearly tearing her breath from her throat in one fell, clawed swoop.

She couldn't breathe, she couldn't see, couldn't FEEL—this lack of sensation would've driven a normal person mad, but long ago had the girl, thrashing about like a beached whale in the embrace of her bed sheets, adapted to such dreamless nights. Nightmares and illusions were the spawn of aimless, hopeless wishing: here, this abyss of a realm was only home only to vacancy and swarming darkness.

Sometimes, Tira wasn't sure why she even bothered going to sleep. She had lasted for days on end without it merely out of intolerance for the disturbing lack of dreams, and to be honest, she was used to training without so much as resting for a minute. Long ago, in the halcyon years of her training, she recalled dreaming once—dreaming like the vulnerable, pathetic prey that she would one day harvest.

There was a sudden, pulling sensation, one of thousands of cold, clammy hands reaching from the velvety abyss and yanking her from the grasp of the cold, cruel darkness, guiding her to the blessed light.

The moment her eyes opened, she saw the white flood over the darkness, washing it away like palpable, tar-like grime on a marble wall. Wearily, purple eyes shifted and glazed into focus as the blur coating every shape and edge in the vicinity started to drift away like fog, swirling like an ephemeral halo in the tepid air.

Instead of the impenetrable darkness, line upon line of frugal cots rimmed the walls, draped with threadbare sheets and occupied by tiny, sleeping forms—those of Tira's fellow assassins, fledgling boys and girls who would one day take the lives of others and crush them like cockroaches in the very palms of their hands, laughing all the way.

It was pitiful, really, but she had no concept of pity. It would only weigh her down, distract her from her orders.

For a moment, reality lapsed. Where was she, she wondered as the swarming, dancing flashes of light blinking before her vision began to clear, absorbed into the hellish light of the lanterns, dangling from the ceilings from bronze, rusted hooks. What was she doing here?

It slapped her in the face with such force it was remarkable she didn't tumble right off of her Spartan cot and onto the floor.

Where was she? Why, she was in the depths of the fortress that served as the assassin organization she was part of's base—the Bird of Passage, concealed from history and the prying eyes of the unworthy, only known by the rich and customers who could keep their mouths shut of their existence. The base extended far beneath the surface of the earth, stretching into long, labyrinthine chambers, where the rookies would sleep. Similar bases dotted the world, kept linked by any possible communication networks—they were everywhere, and yet no one was the wiser.

It was likely still early, as every cot was filled, and only the culminated sounds of soft snoring filled the air. Shifting uncomfortably, Tira stared around, squinting past the dim firelight that brightened the corridors to gaze about. Idly, as she wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand, she wondered if any of them dreamed. The newcomers, who slept in an opposite hallway, likely did as she once did, but they too would soon be robbed of it.

They too, would join her suffering.

She didn't spend much longer in silence, as the door creaked open a split second later, the silhouette of one of her superiors framed in the doorway. Firelight beamed behind his lithe form, nearly overshadowing him with the conflicting glow of the lights in Tira's own room. Sitting upright, she finally identified him as Krieg, another trainer, and one of the elite assassins in the league, meaning he was responsible for commanding the trainees outside of his group to a certain extent.

The blonde-haired man held aloft a lantern, highlighting the angular curves and rigid chin that topped off his scuffed, rugged face. Instinctually, Tira shot up, leaning her body forward so her vivid, purple eyes locked onto his own, just in time for him to grasp a thick rope which was connected to a giant, brass bell off to the side, and yank down on it, releasing a great, resounding _clang._

Multi-colored clusters of wide, youthful eyes snapped open, several children stirring reluctantly in their beds while others turned over, watching the bell vibrate and listening to the bellowing cry resonate about the chamber. Tira was the first up, naturally, the stiffness in her legs following her all the way down the ladder of the bunk bed. The sounds of yawning originated all about the sanctum as, one by one, the trainees struggled out of the relative comfort of their cots.

Tira would've rolled her eyes if she had the energy. There was no time for exhaustion in the Bird of Passage—only efficiency, and cunning.

"Alright, everybody," barked Krieg, "Out of bed. To training—"

Just as Tira was about to pass him, she felt a hand rest on her shoulder and tug her gently back through the threshold of the door. "Not you, Tira," he said, "Freya's waiting for you outside, but I have a message to deliver to her. Today is a very important day for you."

Tira blinked curiously up at the taller man as he waited for the rest of the children to filter out of the room. When the last one had made it through the halls, he nudged Tira forward and led her out of the room, down the firelit hallways of the base. Mazes of similar passageways were linked to one another throughout the entire bastion, tapering off to hundreds of rooms and chambers so similar to this one. Countless assassins made their homes here, and in bases speckling the regions of Europe—or in hidden areas, such as deserted towns or perfectly concealed homes.

He led her around a sharp turn, one she had memorized a long time ago; over up a pair of stairs and to one of many immense double doors that served as the exits. Cracking them open with a loud creak, sunlight trickled through the slowly expanding opening, gradually beaming brighter with an almost welcoming, golden glow.

It took Tira a moment to adjust, as staying down for so long in the poorly-illuminated fortress had weakened her eyesight. Orange streaked the purple, sparse clouds in the indigo sky, circling the sun that was inching its way, centimeter by centimeter, over the thick treetops and into the embrace of the clouds. A clear day was ahead, but despite that, frigid coldness bit and prickled at Tira's skin from beneath her green, knee-length tunic. She hadn't been given the opportunity to change out of her outfit or retrieve her weapon, so this meeting was obviously urgent.

Krieg looked around, a frown engraved on his square-shaped face. "Now where is that b—" he stopped in the middle of his sentence as he spotted a vibrant blue head over one of the hills, an obviously artificial smile forced on his lips. Grabbing Tira by the wrist, he tugged her behind him as he strode over to the woman awaiting him.

"Freya!" he called, drawing the woman's attention.

Freya's head snapped toward the two, her bronze-saffron eyes narrowing past the encroaching sunlight. She climbed to her feet, arms folded over her corset-clad chest. "About time you got her," she said nastily, strolling over to the two. Krieg's false smile twitched, a curse threatening to worm its way past his lips. "Did you inform her about today?"

"You only asked me to deliver the leader's message to you and bring your apprentice. Nothing more, nothing less," he said, trying to justify his minimal effort. "You DIDN'T tell me to explain everything."

Freya snorted and rolled her eyes as she shoved him aside with one jerk of her elbow, prying him off of the surveying Tira, "Christ, do I have to do everything myself?" she asked no one in particular, eyes cast toward the heavens she beseeched. "Whatever. Just hand me the message and get out of my sight."

Krieg muttered something foul under his breath and thrust a dusty envelope into Freya's outstretched hand. "Gladly," he snarled into Freya's face as the woman tossed him a smug smirk and an arched eyebrow. Attention parted from him for the time being, Freya turned to Tira and leaned down to face her pupil, an unpleasant smile on her scarlet lips.

"Good morning, Tira," she said as kindly as possible, looking into her eager, adopted "daughter's" face. "Hmn. Still in your pajamas… oh well. I suppose you're interested in why you're here?"

Tira bobbed her head in agreement, her messed, loose ponytail bouncing atop her askew, aquamarine head. Freya returned the nod, then leaned back, arms folded. "Well, I have wonderful news for you, my student," she said, an almost uncharacteristic amount of zeal permeating her voice. "Today is a very special day for you. Today… is your first mission."

Tira stiffened in surprise, her already broad eyes widening marginally. Her first—her first WHAT? What did her Master say? "I---" she started, her expression and voice filled with confusion, "Master, what do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said," Freya said proudly. "Tonight, you'll be venturing out with three of my other students on your first mission. If things go smoothly, you'll be expected to go on many more until you can meet the men who run our organization."

Once more, Tira felt her body go stiff and numb with shock. Freya's words drilled deep into her mind, burrowing until it reached her very core, words emblazoned along the annals of her being like the unforgiving heat of a branding iron. The men behind the organization? That was—that was every trainee's dream come true. That was the day they took their final test to become an official assassin, and it was likely the greatest moment of glory in the miserable lives of every servant in the Bird of Passage. The council was the group that were directly connected with the men who actually handled communications with customers, and in the absence of the leaders, they were the ones who passed orders about.

It was also true that Freya had other students. She had been told that a long time ago, but they were too far away for her to truly speak to them, only managing to get a split-second glance that she had long ago forgotten. Their schedules were drastically different, further widening the gap that split them. Many trainers had multiple pupils, and the more the merrier, in the organization's opinion.

"Master?" Tira asked in disbelief, "Is this—is this true? Am I really—"

Freya, although slightly impatient, nodded her head slowly. With that true realization in mind, Tira nearly exploded with excitement, possibly with the most intense emotions she had experienced in a long while of detachment. "I—" Tira stammered, searching for the correct words to articulate herself. Breath stolen away from her, Tira could only bow her head, thanking her Master again and again with gestures alone. "T-Thank you, Master, for this honor!"

Smirking evilly and idly toying with a long, teal strand of hair between a pair of lithe, leather-clad fingers, Freya disregarded her pupil's joy for the time being with a flippant wave of her hand—one that still made Tira burst with happiness—and spoke once more. "Only," she produced the letter that Krieg, who was still watching the spectacle disgustedly out of the corners of his eyes, had given her, "I won't be there to supervise it. Instead, one of our trainers will be there to watch you."

Once she was able to control her giddiness, Tira blinked and tilted her head, rosy spots of blush still sprinkled along her round cheeks. "Then… who will be there, Master?" she questioned. "Who will be watching me?"

Freya shrugged loosely, slicing open the envelope with the tips of her fingers. "Well, that's what we're going to find out, now is it?" she said, pulling the letter out and displaying it before her face, discarding the envelope carelessly to the side. Her bird-like eyes scanned over it, eyes dancing along each word as she took them in, her expression at first placid, neutral…

Until she finally found something that made her eyes stop where they were in their sockets, her mouth nearly dropping open in repulsion. Tira could only watch in confusion and shock as Freya's face warped into an expression of anger and incredulity, much to Krieg's amusement.

"Oh,_ SHIT_," Freya growled, angrily crumpling up the letter and tossing it to the ground, "She has HER as her supervisor."

The male merely raised an eyebrow at Freya's suppressed temper tantrum, even as she ground her heel into the ball of paper and crushed it into the earth. "It's not all that bad," he said, "She's an accomplished fighter, and she'll make sure that the operation goes smoothly—"

"THAT'S not the point!" snarled Freya, whirling around to face him. "I can't stand that woman, and you've appointed HER for MY student? This is completely unacceptable! You know perfectly well how much I hate her—"

Tira watched the retorts fly back and forth with confusion in her wide, purple eyes. At last, she finally interrupted, just as Freya had seized the unfortunate Krieg by the front of his shirt and was just about ready to sock him in the face. "Master," she said respectfully, "Forgive my intrusion, but… who is 'she'?"

Freya, rage momentarily forgotten, shoved the man away from her with all the force her body could muster, nearly throwing him off-balance. Staggering, he scowled at her, dusting himself off and readjusting his tunic. Freya turned to loom over her student, obvious unpleasantness curling the corner of her mouth. For a second, Tira thought she was going to release her legendary rage on her, but instead, the blue-haired woman managed to respond, each word like a shotgun blast.

"'She'," she said, each word forced out through the skin of her teeth, "Is Magdalene."

---

Night had befallen the skies.

Barely any stars, nor a sliver of the moon were visible behind the blanket of fog that enshrouding the air like a milky shawl. Spades of ethereal white beamed from behind the shreds of fog, illuminating the earth below with its pearlescent glow, highlighting the emerald leaves of the trees, each individual blade of grass, and the rooftops of the houses—leaving the rest caked in eerie darkness.

Off in the distance, Tira could see row upon row of houses as far as the eye could see, embedded deep into the ground from behind the rises and falls of the grassy hills that churned the surface of the land, and the proud trunks of the numerous trees that outlined the boundaries of a forest. Speckles of fiery orange light dappled the dark shapes of the buildings, wavering and dancing in the night.

Under this lugubrious atmosphere laid the target: an extravagant looking place, looming high and mighty over the houses like a king over his subjects, lithe spades of orange light spilling ominously from the tall, upper windows that Tira could see through the darkness. It probably could've housed the grand majority of the humble village that lingered a few miles away, but instead it stood there, an affluent testament to the wealth that its single owner possessed and indulged himself in.

'Magdalene', the woman Freya had described before, was an unusual person. Skin drained of pigmentation to a cadaverous, ghastly white, she concealed it the best she could by cloaking herself in protective, rich ebonies, her hood overshadowing the piercing glare of her eyes—underlined in shallow, bruise-colored rings beneath the nearly subterranean glaze of her barren pupils.

There were four of them besides her, each one varied in shapes and sizes, each one sporting vivid, teal blue hair, and each one standing as reverently as possible, armed with their respective ring blades. Tira shifted uncomfortably in her spot in line, deliberately avoiding the gazes of the girls beside her. Being around them made her feel uncertain beyond belief, likely from the lack of interaction she normally had with other students. Forming relationships between others was strongly discouraged, and often harvested strict punishments.

The silence was at last broken like a fragile mirror by Magdalene's husky, raspy voice as she stopped in the middle of the line, towering over the other, petite girls. "Greetings, children," she said without a hint of pleasantness in her tone, flicking back her hood. Silky white hair tumbled out from her cowl, falling before her ghastly, pale face. "Tonight is your first mission, after years of training. Of honing to become one of us—one of the Bird of Passage."

She failed to acknowledge Freya's role in their training, but judging by her strained relations with her, Tira wasn't too surprised, although she was disapproving of any hate towards her 'beloved' Master.

"I suppose it would be best if all of you got to know each other," Magdalene said, "At least by name. I am Magdalene, and for now, you must listen to everything I tell you, without question. Understood?"

All the girls nodded collectively. "Good," Magdalene said, turning away from them and starting at the beginning of the line, before the first girl, "Then let us begin the introductions."

"Marion…"

The first girl at the front of the line stiffened and snapped her head up, reacting robotically. Although Tira's elder by possibly two years, she looked almost like a delicately-crafted doll thanks to the width of her eyes and her pale skin. Her turquoise hair fell in waves of curls down her shoulders and her round, plump-cheeked face, framing her features, and the blank smile that curved her lips.

"Alvör…"

The second vaguely reminded Tira of Freya in her almost bird-like qualities, such as her narrow eyes, feathery hair, and the pointed, elongated features of her face. Unlike her companion, her look in her eyes was as hard as freshly-polished diamond—Tira half expected for Magdalene to burst into flames from the intensity of her glare, but the black-clad albino merely bypassed her like the rest.

"Amsel…"

The final girl peered at Magdalene through the drooping bangs of her windblown, disheveled hair. Silver-blue eyes, streaked with sloppily painted stripes of inky make-up, blinked with an almost extinct innocence, protuberant and owlish on the girl's dark skin. She almost looked ridiculous, like a little girl dolled up in her mother's cosmetics.

In a way, they all reminded Tira of a flock of baby birds—these pretty little creatures, so beautiful, so young, and yet so deadly as they fought and died.

She hated them all, and she wasn't sure why. They were beyond her in so many things: in rank, in age, and in their flawlessness. Some part of her desperately wanted to turn on them at that moment, to spit in their faces and crush them, but instead, she forced herself to remain perfectly still, waiting for her name to be called.

"And Tira."

At the sound of her name, Tira stood a little straighter, arched her back, and looked up attentively, hand on the inner circle of her ring blade, and her eyes on Magdalene's.

Magdalene dignified her with a nod, one that made Tira's chest swell with pride. Gaze sweeping over the group, she spoke once more, "From here on out, you all are going to train and participate in missions together until you all grow skilled enough to independently handle missions," Magdalene stated, "But remember this. While you are expected to act as a team, you are not to grow attached to one another. We have no need for emotional barriers in this organization, and as far as you're concerned, you each should just be a means to an end."

The entire group nodded obediently, faces schooled with focused determination. Despite their attention, Magdalene didn't so much as spare them an approving glance. Glaring around the subterfuge of trees, her eyes narrowed as she quickly scanned the area for any approaching witnesses.

"This is a simple mission," Magdalene said to the group of girls, who all cast their gazes collectively towards where her own, translucent eyes landed, "And I'll be supervising you all to interfere if something goes wrong. Failures aren't to be tolerated in the Bird of Passage, so you WILL be punished if you were to slip up.

"All we need are two things. The head of our target," she extended one finger, then another, as she counted off her words, "And what our master is searching for—a book. But not just any book."

The group exchanged quizzical, but curious glances before their gazes all collectively turned back to Magdalene. Amsel was the one to break the brief, but nevertheless tense silence, the girl's steely eyes blank with puzzlement. "And what is this book for, master Magdalene?" she asked earnestly.

"What it is for is none of your concern," Magdalene said simply, her curt tone immediately silencing the once-vocal young girl, "But it's a book which contains knowledge of something very, very important—something that if you misplace, it can and will cost you your LIFE. So it's best you listen carefully."

Judging by the stern, resolute expression on Magdalene's face, this was no exaggeration. "Do I make myself clear?" she asked.

Everyone nodded, but despite this threat, Tira couldn't help but remain curious despite her efforts to curb her interest. Thankfully, her questions were soon answered—or most of them, at least—the next moment Magdalene spoke up. "The book contains information about an ancient weapon, and retrieving it would prove immeasurably useful to our cause."

The albino woman swept her ring blade back around and thrust it in the direction of the home. "You have the entire night. Go now, in the name of the Bird of Passage."

That was all the encouragement they needed. Amsel was the first to dash off, her ring blade thrown off of her shoulder and passed to her opposite hand, held defensively to keep the moonlight from flashing over the sensitive metal. Alvör and Marion pursued in twos, leaving Tira to trail behind, slipping her ring blade over her head, and leaving Magdalene in the dust, who leapt into the safe coverage of the trees.

--

It didn't take long for the group to find a window to leap through.

Traveling through the sloping labyrinth of the shadows, the group deliberately avoided anything that would expose them to any prying eyes. Tira had managed to catch up to the group and had sprinted ahead of them, keeping her ring blade concealed to prevent the golden light from reflecting off of its silvery ridges. Pressing herself to the wall and waiting for her reluctant teammates to join her, she was shortly accompanied by the rest as they successfully broke through the umbrage.

From what Tira could see out of the corners of her giant, purple eyes, she detected no movement from within the house. Craning her body back around after completing her observations, she, moving spitefully away from her group, sprung into the air after flinging the ring blade over her shoulder so it crossed diagonally over her body, one end resting on her hip. Mitten-enveloped hands clasping around a branch, she swung herself around like a child scaling a jungle gym, flipping herself onto it with barely a rustle in the leaves. As the rest started to join her, she kept on going, making sure to be careful enough not to slip. Reaching the top was nothing more than a slight exertion on her part, but nevertheless a relief to depart from such a task.

With that out of the way, and with the birds joining her, she clambered along the nearest branch, hiding in the leaves of the branches. Keeping her green-clad body pressed low and herself covered, she watched as a figure—the figure of her target—strolled through the house, his body hunched and quivering. The obvious signs of someone weighed down by stress and fear, but this was understandable. Here he was, a figurehead of wealth in a town ruled by poverty, likely the target of scorn by every resident.

So when Tira saw two other silhouettes join him, part of her wasn't too surprised. She heard Alvör swear under her breath in her needle-thin, whispery voice—this wasn't part of the plan. Their sources hadn't mentioned any guards—this changed everything, didn't it?

No, she was still expected to carry on the mission, and she would not let her master down.

The group, although surprised by this turn of events, waited for the final light to extinguish down to a bare flicker after their target had been properly escorted to bed. Shortly after, the two guards turned, and passed out of view—hopefully where they wouldn't see the girls. After a momentary pause, Amsel advanced first, crouching briefly before she sprung through the darkness, cutting through it like an expertly-fashioned blade as she flipped down, down, before dropping in a slightly shorter tree that loomed over the first floor of the three-story building.

The lights had already been nearly completely dimmed on that floor of the house, so entering it would be easy enough. Following her closely behind, the four girls landed on the branch closest to the house. Amsel leaned in close, examining the lock on the window. It was easy enough for her to penetrate it with the tip of her ring blade's ridge, and even easier for her to push it open silently. Gesturing for her companions to follow her, they leapt inside, stepping gracefully on the richly carpeted floor.

There was little to no vision spared in the dark corridor except for the moonlight that managed to journey through the treetops and through the windows like silver-licked beacons, and the pinpoints of orange that flickered from their finely-crafted holsters. Marion gestured for the girls to crowd around her, which Tira obeyed reluctantly. She didn't want to listen to ANY command this girl gave her, but she did regardless.

"I'll get the book," she whispered, "The rest of you handle the target."

Amsel and Alvör nodded immediately, although it took Tira a bit longer to. It was still agonizing to listen to ANYTHING this strange, broken little girl told her, but she knew that if she blatantly went against her new partner's every whims and betrayed them like she so desperately wanted to, it would exact an almost unspeakable punishment—not to mention the disappointment and outrage of her masters. Without another word, Marion turned away and raced down the hall, disappearing out of sight.

Tira was the first to react. Gesturing for the other girls to follow her, she went for the opposite direction, but stopped in her tracks when she saw a dark shape stride down the hall, armed with a long, ornate spear. Lifting her ring blade defensively, Tira turned away, deciding for then not to trouble herself with a violent encounter—right now she needed to trouble herself with the target. Amsel and Alvör following close behind, she slipped in the opposite direction, searching for another way to advance to the upper levels.

She found it, thankfully, in the form of a winding path of staircases she could see stretching through the ceiling, past one of the patrolling officers. Amsel scowled, her black lips slanted in an unhappy, displeased arc. Edging her way past her fellows, she raised her weapon, and, waiting for the man's back to turn, dashed up at him. Moving like liquid mercury, her feet barely making a creak on the floor, she was behind him in an instant, grabbing him and thrusting the tip of her ring blade right through his gut in a splash of blood. Twisting it once, she plucked it out of his body and let the man fall to the ground.

Dead on impact, as the guard lay motionless. Amsel, maintaining the same stealth she had slain the guard with, crept down the halls, her two accomplices running to catch up to her. Creeping up the stairs, ring blades drawn simultaneously, Tira edged her way past the two girls, displeased with having to spend any time so intimately close to them. The sooner she could accomplish her mission, the better.

Anything to get away from these accursed creatures.

Judging by the scene they had witnessed before, the target was obviously awaiting them on the second to highest floor, which was where they broke away from the stairs to. Keeping their bodies and individually crafted weapons low, they started to edge their way down the hall that they saw their target exit down, at first not expecting any interference from the guards.

Tira could see the door just down the hall, caped in shadows and streaking moonlight, zigzagging like spotlights and penetrating the darkness. The lights were nearly dead in this ominous hallway, immersing the curves of the masonry decorating the corridor with black. Knowing better than to be intimidated by such appearances, Tira deftly looked back and forth over her shoulders, scouting for any guards.

None.

But was it really this easy? Tira couldn't help but wonder this even as she started to wander down the hallway, still keeping the façade of surreptitiousness aloft even in this seemingly deserted area. The pitter-patter of clandestine, muffled footsteps creaked not too far behind, tense excitement exuding from the young women behind her. They were just as anxious as Tira to conclude this venture and receive praise from their Masters, so much that they were too preoccupied to notice the figure that started to emerge from the enveloping grasp of the shadows.

They were also too wrapped up to regard it even when it started to move, the slick moonlight coating the blade of its weapon glowing mysteriously, rising to even brighter levels as it was positioned in the direction of the shafts of ethereal light.

However, they did realize their mistake all too late, just as Tira's eyes locked onto the weapon tilted down towards her, and she let out a high-pitched squeal of, "RUN!"

Alvör and Amsel stiffened like statues where they were, eyes wide and a thousand different curses racing in their minds. Alvor hissed a particularly vile word under her breath, Amsel let out a squeak of surprise, and Tira rolled just out of the way as the weapon was brought down, the blade impaling through the wood and carpeting of the floor in a rainstorm of carmine shreds and splinters. The guard emerged completely from the shadows as he plucked the spear out of the ground, whirling it overhead effortlessly, like it were just a twig and not a significantly heavy, elaborate staff.

"INTRUDERS!" he shouted, voice echoing throughout the silence of the chamber, "_INTRUDERS_!"

There is a valuable lesson to be learned in every situation, good or bad.

Tira wasn't sure what it was at first, her body making an unconscious jerk toward the direction of the nearest window to escape, but her own, servile instincts, and the vague memory of Magdalene and Freya's orders kept her planted where she was—but when the storming rampage of footsteps started to pound into the air like thundering drums, she began to understand it.

Nothing is as easy as it seems.

Flocks of guards stampeded into the hall, their weapons held overhead in practical, offensive stances. There was no hesitation. No dramatic pausing, nor any exchanges of mocking taunts or goading encouragements. Just pure, tempestuous mayday, released the moment the first guard entered the room. Spears and ring blades went flying, men and women pushing past one another to reach proper positions in the spacious hall so they wouldn't accidentally knock over one of their allies.

Mortar and porcelain went flying as one or two pieces of expensive pottery came crashing down as Amsel barreled past, her weapon raised as she darted in between the group, weaving in and out as, with a few flicks of her wrist, cleaved through the group. Alvör rocketed into the air, knocking a woman before her to the ground, forcing a few of the guards to scatter so they wouldn't face the same fate, and Tira—Tira wasn't sure how to react at first. In these moments of pure chaos, some people are led by only blind fury or intuition in a desperate bid for survival, almost as though guided by animalistic impulse.

Never having tasted the lust of the battlefield before, only experiencing training and lectures by teachers and officers, Tira lingered where she was as the other girls let hell loose, ripping flesh and carving through bone with bends and twists of their ring blades, her eyes vacant and glossy in the light and yawning eclipse.

When one of the guards managed to break free of the scuffle, panting and heaving as he readied his weapon, Tira let all of those years of training culminate and detonate inside of her like a rampaging pillar of flame, a blood-curdling battle wail erupting from her mouth. The guard froze where he was, backing away from the girl and her mercurial change in demeanor, but he didn't get far. Tira was on him in an instant, vertebrae snapping and heart bursting in a spray of blood as she barreled right into the guard, knocking him to the ground with one foot on his neck, and the point of her ring blade stabbed right through his chest.

Adrenaline slithered through Tira's veins like lava, burning within her bloodstream, screaming its rage through jaws laced with fire and smoldering ashes—like the mouth of the devil, of the embodiment of all that was impure and wicked in the world. The twitching body beneath her, Tira moved with almost supernatural grace, slicing through another guard with a twirl of her ring blade, freeing blood and gore into the air. She would've continued—she really would—if the sound of crashing and scuffling hadn't garnered her attention first.

Jerking her head around in the direction of the door, pupils dilated, a scowl crossed Tira's head like a flash of lightning for the briefest of seconds before she recalled why they were there in the first place—and that purpose was escaping. Leaping off of the corpse she had taken her perch on, she dashed away from the mayhem that was still preoccupying the guards and the girls and raced down the hall, breaking right through the ornately carved door with one good shove.

It was no surprise that the room behind the door was just as lavishly decorated as the rest of the home, draped in velvet, dappled in outrageous finery, and walls hung with extravagant, colorful paintings done by underappreciated, talented artists. The canopy bed's lush sheets were tangled and sagging off of the bed, like the occupant had been in a hurry to escape, but it didn't take Tira long to find the target himself: a tall, well-groomed looking man, brunette of hair and with skin as white as the porcelain that Tira could hear being destroyed back in the hallway. He was trembling and shuddering, shielding his head with his arms and gasping for breath like he were having a nervous breakdown—which he likely was.

He didn't notice Tira right away until she took her first step forward, a look of complete resolution on her face. Freezing and snapping his head upright, sunken, black eyes bored into amethyst purples, perspiration spilling down the man's forehead in sticky trails of moisture. Cursing aloud, he shrunk back from the girl, hands raised protectively.

"Ju—NO!" he exclaimed, "No! Don't hurt me! Just go away!"

Tira said nothing, taking a few steps forward toward him, the floorboards squeaking beneath her boot-clad heels. Ring blade dangling from her hand, its tip scraping gently along the ground, Tira stopped a few inches away from the cowering, whimpering man, her weapon slowly levitating off of the ground as she raised it overhead, glowing like a halo of pure iron.

As the man looked on, horrified, at his doom, at the reaper who would deliver her from this plane, he suddenly shrieked, "NO!"

Kicking and pedaling at the ground, he backed away as far as he could from his murderer before his back collided with the wall, preventing him from any escape as Tira continued to advance on him, preparing herself for the deciding strike that would end his life once and for all.

"Do you—what have I done to you? What have I done to all of you? Are you with those villagers?" his voice was becoming distorted, hysterical, as his own fear carried him through his stammering and stumbling, "Are you… are you—do you… I have money. Lots of money. You're doing this because of that, aren't you?!"

Before he could continue with his pleading, Tira silenced him with an almost eagle-like, stone-cold stare, eyes as frigid as the metal of her ring blade. Lightning crackled behind her purple irises like a whirlwind, striking at the paralyzed man's own eyes and petrifying him on the spot. "Don't worry," she said hoarsely, swinging her ring blade back on her wrist, "I'm not expecting much from you. I won't take anything but what my Master needs…

"…and your life."

All it took was one, powerful swing to end his life, to sever his head from his body and bathe Tira's body with brilliant, claret red, peppering Tira's body with bullets of sanguine. The head went flying to the side through the air, scarlet spraying behind it like the tail of a comet as it hit the ground, rolling, rolling, until it was left to simmer in a puddle of its own juices while the decapitated body sagged and drooped beside it. Against all humanity, Tira could unconsciously feel, in that moment of numbness as she watched the fountain of blood shoot into the air, her lips curve into an empty, lifeless smile—something she didn't realize was there on her face even as she tasted the metallic tinge of blood in her mouth.

She could've stayed there and watched it all day, and she wasn't sure why. Something about it was strangely hypnotic in how it penetrated the permanent senselessness permeating her heart, and replacing it with this odd—so unfamiliar—warmth. Looking down at her ring blade, she could see the same blood coating it, the malodorous stench leaking into the air. Before she could bask in the inexplicable depravity of her sin any longer, the sound of footsteps pummeled at her ears as Amsel and Alvör stumbled in. Both girls had endured an injury of some kind, the smell of sweat and blood arousing Tira's attention all over again. Shortly afterwards, Marion's delicate form staggered behind them, a worn, decrepit book clutched in her hands, while her bloodstained ring blade hung diagonally from her shoulders.

Head snapping toward them, the girls skidded to a halt before the pool of blood saturated into the carpet, feet on the threshold. All eyes were locked on Tira as she scrutinized them coldly, not moving an inch, even as the rest of the guards burst into the room, ready to fight once more. There were significantly less of them than before, their numbers obviously chiseled away by the girls. Several of them were covered from head to toe in gashes or minor scratches through their frail armor, doing their best to ignore the moans of the severely injured that pealed from the hallway.

They probably would've attacked all of the girls if they hadn't seen the body of their recently-deceased master, leaking his life's essence all over the ground. "Oh my God—" one of them hacked, nearly dropping his weapon.

"Get out of here!" shouted Amsel, taking advantage of the guards' stunned reaction, "GET OUT OF HERE!"

Jolted from her trance by this outburst, Tira stumbled back, shaking her head rapidly, flinging specks of blood from her teal blue hair (which was now marred with a dripping, slimy, vaguely purple hue). Gasping for breath, she swiveled her eyes to and fro, her vision sweeping over the gruesome sight before her. What was this? What had just happened? Did she really—no, it could not be. It just could not be.

"Come on!" Alvor snarled, racing past her in a teal-tan blur. Completely neglecting the head which lay, stagnating on the floor, she leapt through the window, using her arms to guard herself as she broke right through the rain of glass shards and into the safety of a tree.

Amsel and Marion trailed behind their partner, ignoring Tira for the time being. Apparently, they didn't seem to think highly of her, either. Growling from this snubbing, but abandoning her rage for the time being, Tira's gaze snapped back to the guards, whose expressions had changed from those of disgust and abject horror to complete, unbridled rage. Knowing better than to linger any longer, Tira rushed away from them, snatching the head off of the ground as she passed it. She knew it was prudent not to defy any orders that her Masters had given her.

She too landed in the trees as she bounded through the demolished window frame, evading the hailstorm of blades and staffs. Leaves scattered about her as she bounced from branch to branch, using every foul word she had stashed in her vocabulary at the shadowed figures she could see ahead of her. They would pay dearly for deserting her like that, she swore that on her name, but she had other priorities to concern herself with, as the weight in her hand reminded her. It only took them a few minutes to outrun the guards and leave the home behind, breaking through the treetops to land in a clearing beneath them.

Trees encircled them on all angles; trampled foliage sprawled over the grassy earth in messes of roots and leaves. Amsel was the first to collapse, her body crumpling to the ground in a heaving, panting wreck. Alvör leaned against a nearby tree, wiping sweat from her forehead, while Marion nearly dropped her book out of exhaustion. Tira, however, was only left to stare down at her red-tainted hands, webs of gooey ichor spreading between her fingers.

She didn't understand why what she had done bothered her so much, or why the sight of blood didn't repulse her. Tira didn't have time to ponder these subjects for long, however, for the rustling of leaves made all heads jerk toward the jostling branches up ahead. Bloodstained hands resting on her ring blade, Tira's eyes narrowed, prepared to assault any threats that would come her way, human or otherwise. Her willingness to fight after committing such a violent act that perturbed her so deeply startled her, but there was no time to think of such matters—

--Thankfully, there was no need for apprehension. Magdalene leapt from the branches above, body curled as she cleaved through the air, landing on her feet in a crouched, ready position in the middle of the circle of battle-prepared girls. Letting out a collective sigh of relief, the group slumped out of their defensive positions, returning their ring blades to their casual stances. Magdalene stood up, straightened her body and dusted herself clean of leaves and twigs. Grace or not, it was difficult to traverse the trees without getting dirty in any shape or form.

Brushing a strand of white hair out from her ghostly eyes, Magdalene forced an uncharacteristic, likely false smile on her pale lips as she gazed about the area. "So," she said calmly, "I see that things went smoothly."

'Smoothly' was quite the creative stretch, as Magdalene's sarcastic tone implied. "Or, as smoothly as anything involving a group of fresh rookies can be. Seems you all ran into trouble, one way or another," she shrugged, making Amsel, Alvör, and Marion flinch, guilt on their faces. Tira, however, couldn't help but smirk at their panic as the true reason behind their worry became apparent: they had realized that they didn't bring the head with them. True, they had the book, but the head was something that was explicitly stated. "So. Where are the items?"

Marion said nothing, bashfully approaching Magdalene and handing her the book. Glad to be rid of the weight of the heavy novel, she returned to her partners, avoiding Tira's gaze all the way. Magdalene watched Tira suspiciously, her nose wrinkling distastefully at her blood-splattered form. "…I see that _someone _managed to take care of the target," she said, having recognized Amsel, Alvor, and Marion's injuries as battle wounds, and was able to decipher Tira's lack of injuries. "But I'll get to that eventually. Now…"

Her gaze flickered down to the book, which she busily leafed through, batting at the dust the old pages released into the air with a flap of her hand. When she was satisfied with her inspection, and had thoroughly identified the book, she snapped it shut and tucked it away in a pouch at her side. "Ah, very good…" she murmured, "Very, very good. The council will be very happy with this. Now…

"…The head."

She looked around expectantly, hoping that at least one of the girls would step forward and offer it to her. When Alvor, Amsel, and Marion didn't, however, instead shifting their eyes down to the earth and shuffling their feet awkwardly, a frown furrowed Magdalene's brow in disappointment—something that made the girls freeze and bow their heads shamefully, having been emotionally devastated by their superior's disapproval. When Magdalene glanced at Tira, however, the girl managed to control her facial muscles to keep herself from leering at the triad of girls, and walked over, reverently placing the dripping, dismembered head in Magdalene's hand at her wordless encouragement.

Smirking softly to herself, Magdalene took the head from Tira and tossed it in a dusty old sack, tying it and securing it to her belt beside the satchel holding the book. "Excellent," she said, giving Tira an acquiescent nod, one that filled Tira with a bizarre sensation—pride? Yes, that was it. Pride. She had felt it before, with Freya, but never to this magnitude.

After all, she had succeeded where those girls that she so adamantly loathed had failed, and she was to become part of their prestigious organization.

Tira's chest nearly exploded with it, yet she still couldn't bring herself to smile like some part of her, abused and mangled beyond recognition, wanted her to. All her lips managed were just a few, pathetic spasms, ones which grew all the stronger as her eyes shifted towards Marion, Alvör, and Amsel when she saw the defeated looks on their faces. No doubt Freya would be disappointed in them for their failures, and no doubt would she have a suitable punishment prepared for them.

For some twisted reason, Tira's arrogance intensified at the very idea of overcoming those pretty little birds, despite all their flawless beauty and training.

She had tarnished their perfection, and it felt so, so wonderful.

Her moment of ecstasy was summarily interrupted by Magdalene, who turned away from the group without a word, draping her ring blade over her shoulder. "Enough of the praise, however," she said absently, "It's time we returned. Keep up. If you get lost and trail behind, I'm not coming back for you."

That was the last thing she said before she sprinted off, tearing through the bushes in a rush of leaves and dust beneath her heels, leaving a shellshocked Tira with no other option but to pursue, still beaming internally all the way.

And behind her, downtrodden and fearing the worst, the pretty birds followed as nimbly as their limp bodies could allow.

--

"_Very, very good."_

_Standing before her master, back straight and head lifted proudly, Tira smiled: a broken, crooked thing, wobbling and twitching erratically on her plump, pink lips, as though they couldn't accommodate such an alien gesture._

_Looming over her, Freya forced a wicked, devious smile of her own, spreading her crimson-painted lips in a devilish, bestial glee that would've looked utterly hideous on anybody else. For once in her life, Tira didn't see the glint that would herald a brutal punishment in her yellow eyes, nor the rage that would normally twist her once beautiful features—instead, she looked genuinely pleased, something incredibly rare for someone as difficult to satisfy as Freya._

_Tira was right—Freya wasn't exactly happy to hear that her senior students had failed so miserably at their mission, even with their overseas training. Embarrassed and outraged, her punishment had been swift and merciless, and neither one of them had left the room they had been dragged into on their own. Apparently, they had been incapacitated, and it had taken several other spectators to help them evacuate the room before the enraged Freya could return to unleash her wrath once more._

_Not that Tira pitied them. They deserved what they had gotten, and nothing more._

"_You've made me very happy, Tira," Freya cooed in the closest thing to affection, leaning down to face her diminutive disciple. An elegant hand reached up, gingerly brushing away some freshly re-dyed hair from Tira's round, soft face. "Yes, you've made me very happy indeed…"_

_Tira felt her heart—or what hadn't been petrified into a cold, empty shell—inflate inside of her again, as though it had been swollen with golden honey. "Thank you, Master," she said breathlessly, "Thank you…"_

_The edge of Freya's lips tugged in a coy, calculating smirk. Even when experiencing joy, her "beloved daughter" knew her place. "In fact, you've been so good, I think you deserve a reward," she said smoothly, slipping a finger beneath Tira's chin and tilting her head upward. "We'll take a break from training for the week. For now, get some rest. You've earned it."_

Despite her master's sentiments, Tira couldn't help but feel intimidated by the very concept of going back to sleep. For a while, she contemplated simply remaining awake for the rest of the night even as she lay on her back, staring up at the cracks and shadowy contours of the wood of the ceiling, hair splayed messily over her face like the straw of a bird's nest.

Eyes wide open; she was left alone in the dusty silence of the room, once more filled with the distant snoring of its crowded occupants as she quietly ruminated on the events of the day. For hours she had remained in the same position, mind blank and troubled by the same recognition that had plagued her since her first mission.

What she did was wrong, wasn't it? Freya had told her a long time ago that many people had viewed killing as an abomination, but these were the very same people who had been deemed as inferior by their organization, by their masters. If this was the case, then why did she feel like she had let somebody dear to her down? Then again, who would be considered 'dear' to her? She had always been alone, without comfort or security in her life, with nobody to cherish or to adore.

_Nobody but master, at least, _a sibilant, rasping voice hissed from the farthest depths of her mind, _That's how it's always been._

Yes, that was how it had always been, Tira thought to herself, fingers tangled together over her sheet-covered form. That was how it always had been, and it was how everything always _WOULD_ be, of Freya throwing out her orders without consideration for her student's safety, and Tira mindlessly obeying without objection. Just like always, and it would continue far into Tira's elderly days, all the way into death, and possibly the afterlife. Even in death, Freya's stranglehold on her—this demented collar of hers, choking and tugging at Tira's neck even as she understood its figurative presence—would always remain, transcending Hell and Heaven alike.

…_Right?_

At least, it was how it had always been for as far as she could remember. From the first day lingering on the threshold of Tira's memory, she had been told she had remained in the custody of the Bird of Passage, specifically chosen from the unworthy to become one of the Angels of Death, and Freya was her chosen guardian and designated master. Nothing more, nothing less had been bestowed upon her.

She apparently didn't matter enough for them to tell her much more, but this she had established a long time ago, along with what was to be kept confidential, and what wasn't.

Tira was a tool, and nothing more.

And she would do a tool's work without any complaints, because that was all she was good for—nothing else, no matter how scurrilous her treatment was under Freya's wretched hands.

With this resolution in mind, she at last granted her eyes closure, letting the seas of blood take her, and whisk her away to darkness, where dreamless nothing zealously awaited her and rocked her like a tender, embracing lullaby. Where she had once loathed to return to, but now, driven by exhaustion, allowed herself to be carried away to without resistance.

For the first time in years, Tira dreamt--of blood splattered corpses and shining weaponry, and the laughter that pealed forth from the darkness, echoing eerily in the atramentous emptiness…

And she slept the soundest, most peaceful sleep she had ever had in her entire life.

_**T**o **B**e **C**ontinued…_

_--_

Ah-ha, yet another chapter finished. Once more, I'd really like to thank those who have reviewed, and here's to hopefully many more reviews in the future.

Here are more useless facts. 'Marion' is a play on the word 'Marionette', which is a puppet. 'Amsel' is a German word for 'Blackbird', and Alvör was borrowed from a website listing Old Norse names. In its words, "The second element _vör_ is the feminine form corresponding to the masculine second element _-varr_, from _-waró_ "to be vigilant" (compare to the OW.Norse adjective _varr_ "vigilant"), derived from Germanic _-waraz_ or _-warjaz_ "defend, protect" and related to the Old Norse verb _verja_, "defend"."

'Girlande des Schattens', the name of Magdalene's ring blade, is of a rather questionable translation. I'm assuming that 'Girlande' means 'wreath', of the flowery variety, while 'Schattens' means 'shadows', or 'shade'.

See you all next time, everyone!


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